


Challengers

by irisbleufic



Series: Lyra, Burning 'Verse (& Related Occurrences) [4]
Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: 1880s, 1980s, Christmas, Complicated Relationships, Epilogue, F/M, Family, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Halloween, M/M, Missing Persons, Multi, Parents, Seasonal, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 00:17:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8229692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: another vision of us / we were the challengers of / the unknown
  

  [This, like Mistral, serves as another epilogue to Lyra, Burning / Bending the Light / Lodestar.]





	

**November 1, 1985**

_Yes, I know it was late—_  
_we were greeting the sun_  
_before long._  
_And you live with someone;_  
_I live with somebody, too._

Lorraine rattled the garage window in abject frustration, feeling the trash can totter beneath her feet. She wasn’t as slim as she’d once been, despite what George claimed, and her center of gravity was considerably lower than she’d remembered it being.

She’d never had this much trouble sneaking out the back window of her parents’ house as a teenager (or, on one occasion, dropping from her bedroom window onto the porch awning and into some bushes below).

“It’s no use!” George hissed from behind her. “Doc Brown left the place locked, and now there’s police-line tape everywhere! If we can’t get in without breaking any of it, we’re sunk.”

“If you think I’m going to give up _that_ easily,” said Lorraine, tempted to punch through the window regardless of the damage it would do to her hand, “then you can just go home.”

George groaned in frustration. “I want to have a look around just as badly as you do, Lorraine,” he said, “but I don’t want us to get caught. We won’t help the case, and we won’t help Marty.”

“It’s past midnight,” Lorraine insisted, grateful of George’s steadying hands at her hips as she wobbled her way down from the trash can. “It’s _Halloween_. They’ll blame the break-in on that Needles kid and his awful friends. That’s the whole _point_ , George.”

“At the time, I didn’t know I was marrying an evil mastermind,” remarked George, brushing the dust off Lorraine’s cardigan, “but it’s times like this that I’m glad I did. What do we do now?”

“Check around front,” Lorraine replied, setting her jaw in determination. “See what we missed.” She marched around the periphery, dodging odds and ends of machinery she couldn’t even begin to identify. She felt as if she hadn’t slept in a month; she’d canceled her house-showing appointments and joined Linda in her tireless public flyering and local news appearances.

“Most people hide a key somewhere nearby,” George said, scuffing through the gravel, “but, from everything Marty’s always told us, Doctor Emmett Brown isn’t most people.”

Lorraine approached the taped-off front entrance, hands on hips. “We should look around anyway,” she said decisively, shivering at the slight prickle of breeze against her neck. There were sufficient street lamps and light pollution that they didn’t need a flashlight. She poked at the corner of the doormat with the toe of her slip-on, finding it easy to lift. She worked her foot under, flipping the filthy thing back.

There was an instant, telltale gleam against the concrete. _Victory_.

“What did I tell you!” George cheered. “Maybe Doc’s more of an average Joe than we think.”

Lorraine retrieved the key, wasting no time in using it to slice through the ubiquitous yellow tape. She ignored George’s goody-goody wince behind her, slotting the key into the lock. The door opened into darkness interrupted only by faint slivers of light from the high, lonely windows around the periphery. She fumbled along the wall until her fingers hit a switch.

“Look at this place,” she breathed, blinking as her eyes adjusted. “Do you think the police have ransacked it, or is this just…how it always looks? Marty never really mentioned…”

Their son’s name hung in the dust-moted air, fragile as the jointly held breath between them.

Jennifer Parker had turned up on their doorstep mid-morning on Sunday, October 27th to say Marty had never picked her up for their trip to the lake. She’d been shaky and distracted, fussing with her vest pocket as if it contained a worry-stone instead of what sounded like a crinkling receipt. They’d assumed Marty had taken off with her Saturday afternoon while they were out.

Doctor Brown, by all accounts, had scarcely been seen for more than a week leading up to that date. Even Marty had mentioned finding the garage empty when he dropped by several mornings in a row before school to look in on Einstein and practice for the dance audition.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” said George, softly, finally making a move toward the complicated piece of gadgetry which, upon inspection, turned out to be a dog-feeder. “Unless Marty was worried and decided to go looking for his friend? It’s the kind of thing our son would do.”

Lorraine side-stepped the disastrous mess that was Einstein’s bowl, wrinkling her nose. She studied the baffling array of clocks, still ticking away, before taking a moment to consider the mess of overdue bills, newspaper clippings, and other correspondence next to a cluttered twin bed.

Instinctively, she cleared away some scattered Burger King wrappers, snagging the pillow by its cotton casing. She pressed it to her chest, breathing in the scent of Marty’s shampoo. “This is where he sleeps,” she murmured, dropping the pillow as if burnt. “When he stays.”

“Lorraine, get over here!” George shouted in amazement from further within the space. “It’s like a studio apartment back here! Kitchenette, living room, clothes press, jukebox, bed…”

Lorraine wandered to where her husband stood in the midst of Doc Brown’s modest existence, the organized and even _comfortable_ living-space standing in stark contrast to the chaos they’d found upon entry. She walked over to the open clothes press, fingering the white collared shirt that had been hung carefully from the hook inside the door. Even though the man whose home they’d infiltrated wasn’t wealthy anymore, it was clear he’d retained a sense of dignity.

“I don’t see anything the police could’ve missed,” Lorraine sighed. “And didn’t they say they’d removed a few pieces of evidence for cataloguing? Paraphernalia relating to an experiment?”

“For my money, Doc Brown has been working on something off-site,” said George, wandering away from the plush armchair he’d been testing, coming to a stop next to the unmade queen-size bed. Lorraine watched him test the spring of the mattress with curious fingertips. “Maybe Marty knew about the experiment and took something to him? Didn’t they say there was some odd activity in the Lone Pine Mall parking lot in the early hours of the twenty-sixth? Something about those terrorists who’d taken the plutonium crashing their van in a failed attack?”

“Yes, but they don’t know if it’s connected to these…disappearances,” Lorraine replied, her throat beginning to constrict. “There were signs of a chase—tire tracks belonging to some vehicle other than the van, even some scorch marks—and they didn’t find the plutonium.”

George sat down on the edge of the bed, folding his arms tightly across his chest, lost in thought.

Lorraine knew he was as exhausted as she was, knew that he’d been stressed about the upcoming book launch before the strain of Marty vanishing without a trace had hit them. She sat down beside George, putting an arm around his shoulders. She’d been afraid of this, of the prospect of George retreating so far into himself that she’d feel as if she were living with a stranger.

“I don’t know what to do,” George said. “I’m a goddamn science fiction writer, and I don’t—”

Lorraine pulled him in tight against her, turning her body, letting him sob against her shoulder.

“There there, George,” she whispered, stroking George’s hair, reminded too much of her son’s.

 

**November 27, 1985**

_Leave it there_  
_for safe-keeping,_  
_one of the west village in plains._  
_That was the custom_  
_come dawn._

Biff set aside his empty Coors Light can, yawning as the opening credits of the next _Dennis the Menace_ episode started up. This Nick at Nite thing had only been around for about five months, and it had already become his after-hours television binge of choice.

“Better not be one I’ve seen already,” he muttered under his breath, struggling to right the recliner so he could get to his feet. It was a little past midnight, and he’d had a hell of a time getting the twins to bed. It was like having two Dennises for the price of one, but damn if he wasn’t better at handling a pair of rowdy grade-school boys than most fictional parents.

Jo had crashed out early, poor thing, after a really rough day in the office. She deserved a break.

Biff shuffled into the low-lit kitchen with its peeling linoleum and yellow walls, surprised to find he wasn’t alone. The hum of the radio drew his eyes over to the table, where Tiff, his oldest, sat with a mess of books, diagrams, and papers spread out in front of her. She wasn’t doing her work. Chin in hands, knees drawn up, the local AM news station had her undivided attention.

“Honey, you’ve gotta stop,” Biff sighed, fetching another can of beer from the fridge while Tiff watched with a sleepy, worried frown. “They haven’t found nothin’ we don’t already know.”

“The police are useless,” said Tiff, kicking the table-leg as Biff sat down beside her. “Mom said Lorraine told her she and George went _in_ there the other night. Don’t tell anyone.”

Biff snorted, popping the tab on his Coors. “Went in where? The police station? Gave ’em hell?”

“ _No_ , Dad,” said Tiff, impatiently, chewing the end of her pencil. “In Doc Brown’s place!”

“Now that’s news to me,” Biff said, taking a swig of beer. “McFlys? Breaking and entering?”

Tiff set down her pencil and turned down the radio, fixing him with a glare. “They’re frustrated with the cops, _jeez_. Wouldn’t you be, if it was me or Doug or Don who was missing?”

“Of course,” said Biff, trying not to imagine the strain it would put on Jo. “Don’t be a butthead.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Tiff muttered, picking her pencil back up, turning the page of a book directly in front of her. It looked like something Biff vaguely remembered from junior-high science. “You always know _exactly_ how to make me feel better about a totally shitty situation.”

“Hey, look,” Biff sighed, almost sneezing at the tickle of carbonation that hit his nose as he lifted the can again, “I’m not the most in-touch-with-my-emotions guy on the planet, okay? Take it easy on your old man for once.” He took another sip, considering his next words. “I know you’ve gotten to be pretty good friends with Marty lately. He’s kinda dorky like George, I mean if George had been a band geek or somethin’ like that, but he’s a good big-brotherly type to have around. Especially since I can’t look after my daughter while she’s at school.” Tiff looked up from her reading, lips twisting like she might smile, so Biff kept going. “Yeah, yours truly knows all about the assholes who can pick on ya, because I was one of ’em. Long story. Anyhow, what I’m tryin’ to say here is that I know this has been a rough month.”

“It’s been _exactly_ a month,” said Tiff, her eyes drifting back to the radio. “To the day.”

“You and keepin’ track of time,” Biff marveled. “There ain’t nobody else in the family like that.”

“The science fair’s in December,” Tiff went on, not really listening. “Marty said he’d help me with this project,” she added, gesturing to the gibberish spread out on the table. “He said he’d finally introduce me to Doc Brown, even, so I could get his advice on my design!”

“No offense, but I always got the impression that guy wasn’t quite right,” Biff replied. He remembered the reputation from years ago when the guy taught at Hill Valley Community College—that had been while Biff was in high school—and he still had to wonder. What did some washed-up recluse of an inventor want with a local author’s kid, anyway? Was there some connection to the fact that George now taught English at HVCC? “I mean, you’ve probably heard just as much _speculation_ as I have about Doc Brown’s relationship with—”

“Yeah, kids at school are mean as _fuck_ about it.” Tiff glanced at him as she spoke, eyes glinting angrily, turning the radio back on. “Needles and those creeps won’t lay off Marty, and Jennifer Parker’s at wits’ end about it. I mean, y’know, she’s…she _was_ …she _is_ Marty’s girlfriend, so…” She swallowed as Biff leaned closer in concern. “I talk to her sometimes. We talk about it, too. About Marty and Doc Brown, I mean. He’s only ever said how great Doc is, I swear. He thinks the world of him, Dad. Jennifer doesn’t think Doc would ever hurt Marty any more than Marty would ever hurt Doc, so it just…” She broke down, hiccupping as tears started to run down her cheeks; Biff had to look away. “It _hurts_ when you ask shit like that about Marty, okay? Even if there was—was _something_ —so what?”

Biff nodded slowly, setting an awkward hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “He’s old enough to make his own decisions, I guess,” he said. “Those rumors never added up to nothin’. Doc Brown’s a harmless eccentric. Folks around town say Marty’s gotten him to open up a little.”

“I miss him, Dad,” Tiff sniffled against the back of her hand, tears falling on her textbook.

Biff shoved his barely-touched beer toward the far edge of the table, careful not to disturb Tiff’s spread. He shifted in his chair so that he could hug Tiff like he used to do when she was small.

“Those buttheads’ll find ’em,” he said into Tiff’s wild hair. “They’ll get Marty and the Doc back safe.”

 

**December 15, 1985**

_On the walls of the day,_  
_in the shade of the sun,_  
_we wrote down_  
_another vision of us—_  
_we were the challengers of_  
_the unknown._

Linda left the sound of her father arguing with Grandma Sylvia about the placement of the tree behind her, sneaking into the kitchen to investigate the smell of coffee. Dave was already there, wearing a guilty expression as she entered, pouring himself a fresh cup from the pot.

“Want some?” he asked, setting his mug down, fetching one for Linda. “You still off sugar?”

“Jeez, no,” Linda said, fetching the sugar bowl from next to the blender. “Who do you think I am, Marty? I go to the dentist regularly for a reason.” She turned to find Dave staring blankly into the mug he'd just poured for her. “Hey, bro,” she said quietly. “I'm sorry.”

“I don't know how you can do it,” said Dave, taking the sugar bowl off Linda's hands. “None of us do. You're the only one with enough brass balls to get in front of every camera and ask the whole freaking state, maybe even the whole freaking _country_ , to keep an eye out for...”

“Mom's got at least a few of the balls,” said Linda, squeezing Dave's shoulders as he sweetened her coffee. “She's been up there with me at least half the time. I might be the one _making_ the flyers, but she's the one distributing all of them. Even the ones for Doc Brown.”

“You didn't have to do that,” Dave said, chewing his lip as he handed her the mug, “and I'm not sure why you did. The guy might be guilty for all we know, and you made _MISSING_ posters for him. I take it back. You don't just have brass balls; you've got a heart of gold.”

Linda shrugged, gulping half the mug in one go. “The guy's got no family. Except for Marty.”

Dave retrieved his mug, cradling it dubiously. “You really think he was that important to him?”

“Marty to Doc, or Doc to Marty?” asked Linda, shrugging, doing her best to ignore the rising voices in the living room. Her mother had joined in now, hysterical. “Yes to both.”

“You're probably right,” Dave sighed, grimacing as if his coffee had gone cold. “There's literally no other explanation for why a guy like Marty and a guy like that would find common ground.”

“Is there _ever_ an explanation for love, no matter what kind?” Linda challenged, feeling suddenly as irritable as Sylvia and Lorraine. “They help each other. Take care of each other.”

“You got that right,” Dave conceded, dumping his coffee in the sink. “If I had a personal assistant _half_ as attentive as our brother is to that old scatterbrain...” His shoulders slumped, and Linda watched him jerk with an ill-concealed spasm. “ _Dammit_.”

“Dave, you need to take some time off work,” Linda said, ditching her mug on the counter, hugging him from behind. He wasn't a kid anymore, or even a teenager; none of them were. They'd grown up fast, and now they were going to have to grow up even faster. “They'll understand.”

“There's nothing, literally _nothing_ I can do that you and Mom aren't already doing!” he sobbed, unable to lower his voice. “I feel ashamed, Linda! _Useless_! How's that?”

“That's bullshit,” Linda told him, snagging a piece of paper towel over his shoulder, urging him to blow his nose. “For God's sake, Dave, pull it together. Grandma's gonna come in here if—”

“Grandma's already in here, sweetie,” said Sylvia, peering around the doorway from where she'd been hiding for probably the past thirty seconds. “It's not me you have to worry about,” she added, shuffling over to join Linda in hugging Dave at the sink. “It's your grandfather, so be grateful he's at home watchin' some sports game instead of helpin' with Christmas decorations.”

“Jesus, Gram, don't tell him I'm handling this worse than Dad,” Dave managed, blowing his nose on a fresh piece of paper towel as Linda held it for him. “I'd never hear the end of it.”

“Grandpa isn't here because he's handling it worst of all,” said Linda, matter-of-factly. “It's a well-established fact that McFly men can't handle their shit. Isn't that right?”

“Oh, you betcha,” said Sylvia, patting Linda's back. “Marty, now, he's got anxiety all over the place and still handles the hard stuff better than most of us. So you stay strong for him, David, because I'd bet dollars to donuts he's out there stayin' strong for you, all right?”

Dave nodded, setting his chin the same way Lorraine tended to when she was determined, but it only lasted a few seconds. He succumbed to tears again, burrowing against Sylvia's shoulder.

“Why don't you stay in here till he's through,” Linda said to their grandmother, disentangling herself from the group hug. “I'll go help Mom and Dad with the tree. Sounds bad in there.”

“Linda, you're a trooper,” said Sylvia, eyes bright with unshed tears as she patted Dave's back.

 _Wherever the hell you are, Marty,_ Linda thought, ducking out, _I hope Doc's with you_.

 

**December 25, 1985**

_"Be safe," you say._  
_Whatever the mess you are,_  
_you mind okay._  
_That is the custom_  
_on down._

Goldie yawned, finding the coffee he'd left on the end-table several hours ago not just cold, but _frigid_. He surveyed the colored-wrapping-paper-muddled scene before him, watching his son, Louis, unload another glossy department-store shopping bag full of gifts for his cousins.

“Mom outdid herself on the wrapping this year, didn't she?” Louis asked, holding up a box concealed in paper stamped with elegant foil bells and criss-crossed by midnight blue ribbon curled to perfection. “I think this one's the Walkman for Isadine. Emerson'll be jealous!”

“Set it over there on top of the one you got for her,” Goldie instructed, swallowing what remained of the coffee in spite of its state, yawning. “Ten past midnight. Merry Christmas.”

“Wasn't gonna ask Mom to help with this, no _way_ ,” said Louis. “She did the hard stuff.”

Goldie nodded in agreement, thinking of Candace fast asleep upstairs. She'd been shopping down to the wire, wearing her best pumps while she was at it. That took _strength_.

“It's a pity the McFlys aren't having their party this year,” said Louis, soberly, startling Goldie out of his wife-induced reverie. “But I guess I can understand why. Awful stuff they're going through. Professor McFly wasn't the same for the rest of the semester after it happened.”

“This news hasn't reached you and your classmates, but George has requested half-leave for the spring semester,” Goldie told Louis, watching his son's eyebrows raise in concern. “I heard it by way of a courthouse colleague who's part-time faculty. He's taken it hard. Any father would.”

“What I can't get my head around,” said Louis, removing the next few parcels from the bag, checking the name-tags, “is that they've found no trace of either one of them. Poof. _Gone_.”

“I probably don't have to tell you this, but, in my line of work, you talk to an awful lot of police officers,” said Goldie, gravely, placing a couple of boxes for Toni where they belonged. “They say that when this much time goes by in a missing persons case, there isn't much you can do.”

“It'll be two months in a couple more days,” Louis replied glumly. “That's _damn_ bad timing.”

Goldie watched his son rise and back away from the tree so he could get a big-picture view. In the shadows at the edge of the living-room, Goldie was struck how, from where he knelt, Louis's profile and lanky build reminded him of a daguerreotype he'd once seen in his grandmother's album. _Put a hat on the boy_ , Lettie would've said, _and he'd be a dead-ringer._

“Did anyone ever tell you how much you look like an ancestor of ours?” Goldie ventured.

Louis shook his head, dashing back to join his father on the floor. “Nope. Who'd that be?”

“There are pictures of James Wilson in the city archives _and_ in your great-grandma's photo album,” Goldie explained. “I'll have to pull it out and show you sometime.”

“Is he the one who was the sheriff's deputy or assistant or something?” Louis asked curiously.

“Yep, he's the one,” Goldie said, clapping Louis on the shoulder. “Married the grocer's daughter, Annabel Lee, and put away Mad Dog Tannen. I can't decide which makes him braver.”

“ _Oh_! He's the one whose wife was white,” Louis replied. “Toni told me about that.”

Goldie nodded. “They couldn't have done it as easily back East, and _certainly_ not in the South. Hill Valley gained a tolerant reputation once the Tannen Gang was run out of town.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Louis yawned. “Looks good to me, Dad. I think we're set.”

“You get to bed,” Goldie told Louis, hugging him tight, and didn't let go for a very long time.

 

**January 1, 1986**

_Until I see you around,_  
_until we clear the accounts—_  
_leave it there._  
_Leave it to us,_  
_we are the challengers of_  
_the unknown._

Jennifer gritted her teeth as her mother leaned over the back of the sofa and huffed sherry-breath in Jennifer's ear. Involuntarily, she tightened her fingers in Einstein's fur, causing the dog to burrow harder into her lap. The entire house was buzzing with music and chatter.

“You could at least _try_ to be social,” Melissa scolded her daughter. “Marty's family could use the distraction. I can only say so much to Lorraine before she shuts down, and George is—”

“I told you, I talked to them when they first got here!” Jennifer protested. “Would you lay off?”

“It's a wonder they came at all,” Melissa remarked, reaching down to pat Einstein on the head. “I'm surprised _they_ didn't adopt you, Fuzzball, but I'm _so_ happy you're here!”

“Mom, don't call him that,” Jennifer sighed, letting Einstein lick her hand. “He doesn't like it.”

“I don't understand how you can know what a dog likes and doesn't like,” Melissa replied, teetering off the sofa, retrieving her glass where she'd left it on the end-table. “It's a _dog_.”

“Yeah, a dog you talk to like he's the son you never had,” Jennifer pointed out. “Go drink some more with Dad,” she added, making a shooing motion. “He's probably getting lonely.”

“Just don't mope by your lonesome _too_ much longer,” Melissa said over her shoulder, concerned. “The ball's about to drop, and somehow I don't think you want to kiss Einstein.”

“Then you don't know me as well as you thought,” Jennifer muttered, already rubbing the dog's silky head while he licked a few stray tears off her cheek. “ _Ugh_. This sucks, doesn't it?”

Einstein whimpered, nosing at Jennifer's arm. He hopped down off the sofa and wagged his tail.

“Wanna get out of here, boy?” Jennifer asked under her breath, setting one hand absently on Einstein's head as she got to her feet. She surveyed the room as the cacophony of voices resolved itself into a perfectly-synced countdown.

Feeling detached, only dimly aware that Einstein was butting his nose against her wrist, she watched with her back to the television as almost every couple in the room kissed or embraced or loudly detonated their noise-makers.

She sought out George and Lorraine without thinking, spotting them in the far corner next to the dining-room table. They stood forehead-to-forehead in profile, not moving, the moment far too private for a setting such as her parents' New Year's party. At the last second, she looked away.

Einstein licked Jennifer's wrist, whimpering more insistently this time. He pawed at her shoe.

“Hey, Einie,” she said softly, getting down on her knees, finding the leash where she'd stowed it under the coffee table. She clipped it to his collar, shushing him. “Wanna get out of here?”

If anyone had noticed their departure, it hardly mattered. In under five minutes, Jennifer was already more than halfway up the street with Einstein trotting along beside her. Her lungs were burning by the time she reached the courthouse square, and Einstein was panting with exertion.

“Sorry,” she told the dog, “but if we'd taken the car, _somebody_ would've gotten in a tizzy.” She rubbed her arms to fend off the chill, wishing she'd thought to throw on a jacket.

From downtown, their destination was a meandering twenty-five minute walk. It was more pleasant in warmer weather, although the warmest it had been was the first time she'd gone, which had been late November. She'd raced from the library the moment she saw the photographs; she hadn't even bothered to tell the archivist she was finished. She'd gone home, collected Einstein, and set out for a place she'd only ever _read_ about.

When the police's investigations had failed, she'd reviewed the information on record and reached a troubling, yet hopeful conclusion.

Even though its contents had faded, she'd kept the fax from 2015. She'd realized the impossibility of searching the future almost immediately, but the _past_? That, she had at her disposal. The DeLorean's geographical limitations meant that she had the entire history of only one town to scour, and it had taken only a couple of hours.

Fifteen minutes along, clear of the residential side-street gauntlet and a bizarrely jolly holiday-themed invective from Red, Jennifer tightened her grip on Einstein's leash and tugged her keychain out of her pocket. The flashlight dangling there was small, but it packed a punch.

When the gravel road narrowed to a scrub-dotted dirt trail, Einstein barked and attempted to dash ahead. Jennifer reined him in just long enough to unclip the leash, not even minding that she'd have to navigate her way through the first handful of erratic rows on her own. The landscape was an obstacle course of jutting stone and sage, of frost-glittered soil and sunken graves.

Under any other circumstances, as she picked her way through row upon erratic row of the forgotten dead, Jennifer might even have been afraid. She cast her flashlight beam ahead to where Einstein's glowing eyes, two eerie stars in the morning twilight, led her on.

“I knew you wanted to see them,” she told Einstein, reaching the spot where the dog, impatient, stood waiting. She sat down on the grit and sparse weeds, poised between two headstones; Einstein flopped down, whining, his head in her lap. “Nobody should be alone on New Year's.”

The first time they'd come, Einstein had located the headstone reading _EMMETT L. BROWN_ with such sickening, uncanny speed that she'd stumbled trying to keep up. Elbows scraped, jeans filthy, she'd regained her tearful bearings only to find herself staring straight at the stone right next to it.

 _MARTIN SEAMUS MCFLY_ , she'd read in abject disbelief, eyes tracking over the dates.

“Don't tell me I'm an idiot,” Jennifer said, soothing Einstein with long strokes down his back, her voice harsh in the unearthly quiet. “I should've brought a coat. This place _really_ sucks,” she informed Marty, “and I don't appreciate it when you're a smart-ass. Hey, Doc. How's it going?”

Einstein whined again, worrying at Jennifer's shoelace before catching it between his teeth.

“ _Shhh_ ,” Jennifer said, rubbing behind Einstein's ears. She squeezed her eyes shut, laughing as she tried to stave off fresh tears. “Don't think of it like that,” she said gently. “To them, it's only a few months gone.” She opened her eyes, blinking to clear them; she remembered Marty's ridiculous smile to the last detail. She imagined Doc's infectious laugh.

 _To me, anyway, you're not dead,_ she thought. _Somewhere in time, you're alive._

They stayed for as long as Jennifer could stand the cold. There was never as much to talk about as she would've liked, but being there with Einstein comforted her somehow. Being entirely alone with such a secret would've been difficult to bear, but what was _that_ in comparison to having stared some version of your own slowly progressing mortality in the face?

Rising to leave, Jennifer ran her fingertips along the matching inscriptions. _NEVER IN LIFE OR BEYOND SHALL WE PART_. She wondered if Marty had written that, or she wondered if they'd agreed on it before the time came. She wondered that and more, things beyond telling.

On their way back down to the road, Einstein paused to snuffle at a stone Jennifer hadn't noticed before. Shining her flashlight along the name, however, made her shiver in recognition.

“For what it's worth,” she said, recalling her half-formed plan only too late, rummaging in her back pocket for the tiny bundle of mistletoe she'd stolen from the kitchen doorway, “I never thought the jokes at school were funny. I hope you got to know my boys before you went.”

Jennifer placed the sprig on Clara Clayton's grave and, rising, whistled for Einstein to follow.


End file.
